Trust Issues
by Flaignhan
Summary: He blames Sherlock for a lot of things.


**A/N: **This has been festering for a long while. I'm not entirely happy with it but I needed to get rid of it. Hope you like it!

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**Trust Issues**

**by Flaignhan**

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He doesn't want to blow his own trumpet, (he's got people who'll do that for him) but he knows Sherlock Holmes better than he knows himself. He knows what he eats for breakfast (when he's not on a case) he knows how he sleeps (he's seen, through the window, it's _adorable_) he knows the exact temperature he takes his bath. He knows that Sherlock puts precisely fifteen millilitres of bubble bath in as well. He also knows that he twists the bottle as he finishes, as though pouring a glass of wine.

It all makes for _very_ interesting viewing.

He also knows that his favourite consulting detective has a heart. He knows that Sherlock has torn apart CIA agents for his landlady, that sweet old thing that makes such _delicious_ apple pie. He knows that Sherlock would risk his own life to save that oaf of a detective at Scotland Yard. He knows that he would very willingly die for John Watson.

And that's the Achilles heel.

He should congratulate the others really. Turning that statue into someone who cares, some sentimental fool...well, it can't have been easy. Perhaps, if they live, he'll get some medals made for them.

The thing that he loves though, the thing that Sherlock has _no idea_ about, is hidden in the deepest darkest recesses of Sherlock's oft ignored heart. It's something very primal, very animal like. It's like he's marked his territory.

Oh yes, Jim knows that if you so much as _think_ about using up Molly Hooper's time for your own gains, then it'll be bared teeth and guttural growls for you. It's not that Sherlock even _cares_ about the little mite. Half the time he doesn't even call her by her own name. It's territory. He wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock cocked his leg and ruined the little pathologist's lovely white lab coat.

But Sherlock doesn't recognise it for what it is. Has no idea what his possessive, controlling ways say to the rest of them. Doesn't realise that all too often, John will take his own research over to a different bench, so Molly and Sherlock can have some space. He doesn't realise that Lestrade too, will only use Molly for his cases. It's partly because she's rather good, and partly because he wants Sherlock to realise that too. For Molly's sake. It's almost sweet.

She never questions the amount of murders and suicides that end up on her slab. All the while, her colleagues watch from afar with jealous narrowed eyes.

Sometimes though, just sometimes, Jim wonders if Sherlock really _does _know what's going on in that shrivelled little heart of his. Sherlock _relishes_ in destroying Molly. He loves to make her feel like she doesn't matter, because then he too can pretend that's the case.

Jim knows better though. Jim knows that Molly counts. Jim knows that the only reason he, Jim, is still alive, is because he didn't _physically _hurt Molly when he used her. Sherlock doesn't understand the affect emotional pain can have, but physical pain, that's evidence. He knows a lot about evidence. Yes, one mark on Molly Hooper's skin and Jim is sure his body would be scattered over a large area right now. One tiny purple bruise, one thin red line, one slightly twisted ligament, and Sherlock would not have stopped, not even to prolong the thrill of the game.

And, knowing Molly the way he does, (_oh so intimately_) Jim knows that she would find Sherlock's murderousness nothing short of romantic. And, he supposes, she would be right. Sherlock of course, would never admit it, but hunting down someone and tearing them to pieces over a papercut? Well if it's not love then there's something even more gloriously wrong with him than Jim has ever suspected.

If he's honest, he can see why Sherlock likes her, even against his better judgement. Jim likes her too, though he, like Sherlock, will never let on.

If he'd ever taken a pet, he would have like it to have been her.

Yes, she was ordinary. But she was amusing too. And she had a few brain cells rattling around in that little head of hers. She's an angel, but she's not a boring one.

Really, he wanted to turn her. It would have been one of his greatest accomplishments, taking one of their own and dragging her down to his level. And oh _boy_ would she have enjoyed it. She would have learned what real fun was. Although, she _does_ like to slice up dead people for a living, so she's already halfway there.

He liked her cat too. Toby. He misses it, sometimes.

He thinks of her often. Wonders what could have happened if she hadn't stormed into his office and ended everything.

He blames Sherlock for that.

He blames Sherlock for a lot of things, but was unwilling to add another, bigger thing to the ever growing list.

He had considered hiring four assassins that day. Considered the possibility of four red dots instead of three. He was ready to make the fourth call, his thumb was already dialling the number, and then there was the ringing, and then -

"Sir?"

Silence.

"Sir?"

The words had caught in Jim's throat.

"Sir are you all right?"

"Fine," he had choked out. "You know what? Doesn't matter."

He had hung up before his gunman had had a chance to reply. Ever since, he has wondered what's wrong with him.

When he was eight, he was diagnosed with trust issues, along with a number of other things. That's what he puts all this down to now.

The reason there were only three sights trained on three heads that day, was because as much as he admires Sherlock, and as fun as he is, Jim cannot trust him. He cannot and _will not_ trust him with Molly Hooper.

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**The End**


End file.
